


Bunny & Wolf

by Scrunchles



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex, also there's some actual conversations and cute fluff, sex line au, that's all you need to know tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 23:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3828154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scrunchles/pseuds/Scrunchles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sniper's been on the run for a few weeks and finally finds a motel that might be safe enough to sleep a night in and then get back on the road.  The number on his motel key is supposed to be a Chinese restaurant, but instead of fried rice and overcooked chicken, he gets a mouthy kid talking about how great his accent sounds.</p><p>Written based on an "accidentally calls a sexline" au from a post on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bunny & Wolf

The lights of the lobby are blinding to the rangy Australian, and he misses the yellow-tinted shades that he would normally have been wearing.  They’re probably lying broken at the bottom of a ravine in Europe.  The cut on his cheek stings when he squints his eyes and approaches the lobby’s desk.

The graveyard-shift lobbyist doesn’t look him in the eye between putting down his book and handing him his room key.  The young man barely glances up when Sniper asks about any 24-hour take away places, and the kid laughs at his phrasing, emphasizing that, “there’s a Chinese _take-out_ place open ‘til three.”  When that doesn’t really help him, he remains waiting as if for elaboration.  The kid glances up again and raises a brow.  “Number’s on the key-thing,” he says, as if it were obvious to everyone but Sniper.

Maybe it was; he wasn’t from here, and he wouldn’t be staying long.

The room is musty and the tacky wallpaper is bare, but the sheets are clean and the mattress passably comfortable.  He’s had to sleep in far worse in the past week of running.  A dingy little Cessna, two trains, and several cabs.  The driver’s seat of his van was the most comfortable by far but he was starting to get a crick in his neck.

Sniper tosses his bag in the direction of the bathroom and sits down to grab the phone while turning the key’s fob over in his hands. 

He’s starving.  He hadn’t stopped driving all day—not to eat, piss, or gas up.  One of the numbers is close to rubbed off of the cheap plastic, and he figures it's either a 2 or a 3; if it isn’t the first, he’ll just hang up and dial again.

The voice that answers the phone isn’t tired or harried and the heavy accent isn’t oriental, but local from New England.  He doesn’t think he hears the man's voice on the other side right the first time and asks for a repeat.  His face flushes beneath his tan when he gets it, slower, huskier and with an obnoxious, teasing air rather than the rehearsed boredom from before.

“Boston Red Hots, home of your hottest, dirtiest dreams.  How can I be of service?”  After a moment of gaping silence, the voice pipes up with, “wrong number, doll? Or were you lookin’ for the girlie line.  I can transfer ya, but man I was really hopin’ to listen to that great accent for a half-hour.”

“I… yeah, wrong number.”  Sniper agrees, though he doesn’t hang up.

“… an’ where were you tryin’a reach?”

“Some Chinese place on my motel key.”

“Yeah, we get a few of those.”  He guffaws, and Sniper pulls the phone back from his ear slightly, but still doesn’t hang up.  Once he’d gotten over his chuckles, he asked, “So you’re in a motel right now, huh?”

“Don’t people usually pay for this sort of thing?” Sniper asks, plucking at his shirt for his sun glasses out of habit.  He realizes that they aren’t there anymore, mourns their loss with a sigh and lets his hand migrate up to pick at the thin, healing scab on his face as he shifts up on the bed to get comfortable.  He’d planned on cleaning up while he waited for his food, but he honestly hasn’t had an actual conversation in a while—some French bastard spitting one-liners about how he’s going to track him down and blah, blah, blah wasn’t really what Sniper considered riveting social fodder.

The food can wait.  For now, he's discovering how lonely he’s been during the past two months of being on the road.  Tonight will probably fill up his one-on-one conversation tank until the next late night wrong-number to a sex service.

He smirks wryly and almost misses the kid’s non-answer: “so are you into lingerie?” which wipes his smirk away.

“What?  Ah… I… I ‘unno, I don’t think so.”  Sniper winces at the stutter in his speech and then wonders why he was worrying about how charismatic he was being with a sex worker.

“Bummer, man.  I got some _crimson_ silk panties on under my jeans, and _no one_ wants to hear about ‘em tonight.”

Sniper feels a stir in his gut and swallows.  “You can talk about ‘em if you want.”  He coughs and slips further down on the bed to sprawl rather than sit.  “Tell me ‘bout ‘em… rather… uh…”  The tips of his ears burn with embarrassment, but the laugh on the other end clearly isn’t directed at him, it's more eager at the chance to talk about something the other man is into.  His stomach twists and he feels movement south of his belt, which feels just a tad too tight the way he's slumping down on the bed.

“Alright, so they’re _real_ soft, like my junk feels like it’s on a fuckin’ pillow or something.  Got great support and the way they fit around my thighs and ass is great.  I usually have problems with the butt bein’ too big and saggy ‘cause my ass is firm and small ‘stead of like a chick’s, but they cling just right.  And they got this real subtle lace trim that’s the same color, so it kind of blends in unless you’re real close, and _man_ does it feel great when my jeans rub against them.”

“Crikey…” slips out of Sniper’s mouth, and he bites his lip hard with a disappointed exhale.  His free hand was resting on his belt buckle, but he pulls it away, clenching his hand and forcing it down to his side.  He shifts his position to lie down on the bed and gets a little more comfortable rather than undressing.

That laugh brays across the line again, and he frowns.

“You’re fuckin’ adorable, man.  What’s your name?”

“I don’t tend to give it out,” Sniper replies, attempting to resolve to hang up on the young man and order dinner, shower and get some rest.

“What do you want to be called, then?”

Sniper can see tight, straight cut jeans on the young man, and a sliver of red silk or satin or _whatever_ lingerie is made out of peeking over the belt-less top.  A slim, taught back melts seamlessly into a firm stomach and flat chest, flaring out to broad shoulders with slight muscles and reedy arms.

“I don’t.  I think I’m gonna hang up and get some dinner,” he says after a long moment of silence.

“Aw man.  You sure? ‘cause I can totally wait for you to eat ‘n’ get comfortable.  I don’t mind holdin’.”

“Like the accent that much, eh?”

“I get like one interesting call a week, man.  After you, it’s six more days until I get to have a little fun at work.”

He should hang up, but he can't stop himself from asking, "fun?”  He feels like his entire body is throbbing and he isn’t sure if the nausea in his stomach is from lack of eating or excitement.

“Yeah, man,” there’s a dirty smile in the young man’s voice, “I’m _super_ hard.”

Sniper can’t respond to that.  Was the reason the other man could describe his own underwear so well because he has his pants open and is getting off to Sniper’s voice?

“It’s not even the accent, really,” the voice on the phone continues on, “I mean _it is the accent_ but it’s also that you’ve been dodging questions and letting me talk and _Christ_ I love to talk, man.  Especially about myself, and you make me wanna make you talk more about myself, get a few more ‘Crickey’s out of you, y’know?”

The phone hits the cradle so quickly that it knocks the keys off of the side table.

Sniper’s face burns and his pants feel too constraining and he wonders if he’d be considered depraved if he just opened them up and took advantage of an annoying, nasal voice on the phone that loves talking about his women’s knickers.

Sniper takes a deep breath, and resolves that if he's still in need after he calls the correct number for the Chinese place, he will take care of it in the shower while he cleans up and waits for his food to be delivered.

He dials again and waits for the expected greeting, but all he gets is that same voice he’d listened to prattle on about lingerie for five minutes asking him how he can be of service again.

“Fuck,” he groans, palming his face and shaking his head.

“Man, that was fast.  You ready for another round, man? ‘cause I’m not.  I was savorin’ it, but if you wanna join me this time, I’m totally up for—“

“Wrong number again.”  Sniper cut him off and leaned over the bed to get the key from the floor.  His pants were tight and it was extremely uncomfortable, but he was determined to get himself fed and clean before he jerked himself to high-heaven.

“Jesus.  Tell me the name of the place and I’ll just give you the number.”  Disappointment oozed beneath the helpful nature of the sentence, and Sniper sighed, feeling bad for his rudeness earlier and now this.

“I can only read the first few letters of the name and then ‘Palace’…” Sniper told him, wondering if this was going to forward him to an even more awkward conversation.

“Yeah, what’s the letters you can see?”

“ ‘H’ and ‘U’—“

“Uh… so the good news is that you haven’t been calling the wrong number.  The bad news is that the building our offices are in is the former Hunan Palace.”

“Any other place open that you’d recommend, love?”  Sniper chuckled a little at the silence that followed, more than willing to give himself an invisible point for getting the other man to shut up for five seconds.

“Yeah, actually.  Give me your hotel info and I’ll order you somethin’, but you’ve gotta stay on the phone ‘til it gets there, alright?”

“I can order for myself—“

“Nah, this is a special.  If anyone but me asks for it, they’ll tell you it doesn’t exist.  I got connections.”

“Or you order Chinese food every night to keep you up while talking to strangers about your crimson panties.”

“Wow, that sounds _filthy_ comin’ from you.”

Sniper smiles and reaches for his belt, cradling the phone and taking care that his buckle doesn’t click.  He’s just doing it to relax more comfortably, not because he’s thinking about those jeans slipping off the other man’s slight ass and revealing the remainder of that sliver of red from earlier.

“What does?” he asks, allowing his voice to dip down an octave, “ ‘crimson?’ ”

“No, _panties_ you goddamned tease.  Now give me your room number and shit.  We’ll have like… fifteen minutes probably before they get there.”

Sniper grins and paws at himself through his jeans.  “You think fifteen minutes is all you need?”

“For you, probably.  For me, it’s more like five.  I’m really, _really_ into your whole ‘mysterious foreign dude who calls a sex line twice on accident and sticks around to chat with the help’ thing.  It’s doin’ _a lot_ for me.”

Sniper debates his options quickly before clearing his throat and replying, “it’ll probably be less than ten… bein’ honest, it’s been a while, and… I like the thought of slim hips in red silk and lace.”

There was a sharp inhale and a reedy whine that followed.  “Wow, problem solved for me. Underwear ruined.  Fuck you, man.”

“You offer that service often?”  Sniper countered, cradling the phone again so that his hands could undo his pants and free his erection.

“I don’t think you understand who’s supposed to be making who cream themselves, dude.”

“But you’ll still stay with me while I wait for dinnie?”

“If you want, yeah.  Just promise not to hang up on me again.”

“Sorry,” Sniper replied, licking his lips and wrapping his hand around himself, not with intent, but just to provide a little warmth to his confused prick.  “I’m in 1204 at Hill’s Oasis.”

“That’ll be twenty minutes, then.  Perfect.  I’m gonna put you on hold and then we can get down to it.”

“Sure.”  Sniper stroked himself slowly as he listened to smooth jazz play with only a few pinches of static.  He didn’t find it particularly erotic, more soothing than anything, but a call-service should know better than he did, he supposed.

“Alright, I’m back.”

“Welcome.”  Sniper halted his hand as soon as the voice came back.  His breathing was deeper, and he was pretty sure that the other could tell what he’d been doing while he was away, but neither of them mentioned it as the other man segued back into his role.

“So, what are you wearing?”

“Polo, jeans… which are open… and uh… that’s it.  Nothin’ fancy.”

“Oh yeah?  Boxers or briefs?”

“Neither,” Sniper replied, flushing slightly and wondering if he should have lied.

“Thought you said you weren’t into lingerie.”

“I’m not.  I’m not wearing underwear.  I don’t… wear it.  ‘S more comfortable.”  Sniper felt his neck and ears heat once again.

“Oh my God.”

Sniper could hear the shift of clothing and wondered if the other man was pushing his pants and underwear down again already.

“You’re serious?  Fuck, that’s hot.”

“Yeah?  You don’t think it’s wonky?”

“No way, man.  Alright, so… if I were there, what would you do with me?”

Sniper stayed silent for a long moment, trying to get back in his fantasy from before.  What would he do if he had that young man standing in his hotel room with red underwear peaking at him over faded blue jeans?

“You still there?”

“Could I kiss you?” he asks.

“Uh... Yeah,” a soft laugh, “sure, man.  Then what?"

 "I... Uh... It's just... Been a while."

"Oh, yeah, I gotcha.  I got a list long as my arm of stuff I'd _love_ to do to you."  He could hear the amusement in the younger man's voice, and felt his face throb with heat.

"Like wot?"

"Hmmm... Like I wanna suck ya dick.  Most guys like it cleaned up, but you've probably been travellin', you don't wear nothing between your junk 'n' your jeans, and I just really, really wanna get your cock down my throat and taste the fuck out of you."

"Oh..." Sniper's hand had begun to move without him.  "Christ... Ah... You sound like you know your way around a prick."

"Sucked a few, yeah.  Enough to figure out what I like.  You long 'n' thin or what? Give me some details."

Sniper tries to start twice before just sighing heavily and shaking his head.  "Sorry, all I can think of is guiding you up and down my prick by your hair.  Pulling when you try to stop and petting when the head touches the back of your throat."  The words come out stilted and awkward, but the other voice on the line whines softly and Sniper hears the slap of flesh on flesh across the line.

"Fuck, keep goin'.  I don't need to know about your cock, just tell me how you'd use me."

Sniper swallows and licks his lips before closing his eyes and tucking the phone deeper into his shoulder.  He lets his voice drop down low, and when that has an immediate effect, he lets a growl slip out.  "Gonna make you suck 'til you need a breath, then I'll pull you off and up for another kiss.  Gonna slip a finger in you, then another, and another until you beg for my prick, and then I'm gonna lay you down and give you what you ask for—gonna use... Mnngh..." Sniper shakes his head and lets the back of his head flop back on the pillow.  The phone falls from his shoulder and slips down the pillow to lay next to him.  He can still faintly hear the breathing of the other man across the line, and takes a few deep breaths to figure out why he’s hesitating.

It just doesn't sound right, doesn't make his prick throb to think of the younger man as some object, regardless of what he says.  Sniper reaches for the phone and pulls it back up to lay beside his head on the pillow.

"I’m gonna fuck you.” He says, after a long, expectant silence on the other end of the line.  “Gonna listen to what speed you want and how hard you want me, and I'm going to make you bloody see stars, mate.  I'll fuck you on every surface of this room if it makes you keen for me like you do every time I dip my voice down a bit."

"Oh jeez.  I keep doin' that?"  He sounds out of breath and embarrassed and if it isn't the cutest thing Sniper has ever heard, it’s a close second.

"Mhm.  'S cute."

“Sh-shut up and keep fuckin’ talkin’.”  The voice orders before cursing and swallowing.  “I mean—“

“You lose your temper often?”  Sniper grins and bucks up into his furiously pumping hand.  “What if I pinned your wrists to the wall, laid you over the night table and fucked you until you begged me to give you a hand?”

A shuddering gasp, then a choked groan, and the slap of skin on skin became more sticky.  “Fuck… I’m done, but keep going.  I wanna hear you come.”

Sniper licks his lips and smiles at the ceiling.  “I… dunno if I can while talking,” he admits. 

“Just lay the phone down, then, and I’ll do the talkin’ for ya.”

Intrigued, Sniper puts the phone down next to his ear and drops his left hand down to give his balls a squeeze while his right hand continues to pump.

“You wouldn’t listen to me when I begged, and just kept driving into me over ‘n’ over, fucking me against that shitty ass, cheap table until you blow your load in me, but you just keep going… you just keep fucking me until you’re soft and slip out, and I keep begging for more—for you to touch me, or to keep fucking me until I come, so you shove your fingers back in, and get ‘em in as far as you can, just in and out in and out, over and over again until I can’t fuckin’ stand it anymore, and then you finally let my wrists go and I get to touch myself and I just fucking lose it all over that stupid end table.  I’m _loud_ , so loud you have to shove your tongue in my mouth to make me stop screaming your name—whatever it is.”

Sniper had come halfway through, but listening to the crude filth spilling out of the phone in his post-orgasmic state felt too good to stop the kid.

“And then we just fuckin’ make out until we can both get it up again, and— hey, did you already come?”

“Yeah.”  Sniper’s voice is thick and low, and the voice on the other line curses.

“I didn’t even hear anything.”

“Sorry, too wrapped up in what you were sayin’.”  Sniper mumbles, stretching lazily and letting his eyes close.  “ ‘Sides, I’m not a loud lay.”

“That’s bullshit.  Go back and fake it!”  The voice sounds mad, but Sniper can tell that he’s pleased.

“Ngh… ah… fuck ‘m coming, aaaaghhhh…!”  Sniper’s voice is husky and lethargic, which might have put off the mood a bit, but the voice seems satisfied, and laughs at him.

“Jeez, you didn’t have to fake it _that_ hard.”

“What do you want from me?  I’m tired, I smell like a rugby player’s socks, ‘n’ I’ve still got to wait for my food to get here.”

“Rugby’s lame.  Baseball’s where it’s at.”

Sniper feels his hackles rise at that, and shuffles his pants all the way off before heading for the bathroom.  “You think running ‘round a field with no one tryin’a kill you is a real sport?  I’ve had more bones broken with a ball in my arms than I ever did with a glove on my hand, standing ‘round like a stale bottle of piss.”

“What, were you an outfield who never got any action?”  A laugh crackles across the line while he runs hot water into the tub and tugs his shirt up and off one handed, juggling the phone between his hand and his shoulder as he goes.

“You sound pompous enough to be a pitcher.”

“Worse—first baseman.”

Sniper makes a suitably disgusted noise and turns the volume of the phone up a bit before setting it down and slipping into the tub.

“So what’s your deal, man?”  The voice asks once it had concluded its chuckling. 

“What deal?”  Sniper asks, scrubbing himself down and running his fingers through his hair. 

“No name, but you seem pretty talkative.  You’re from another country but you don’t sound like you’re a business man or anything fancy.  What’re you doing in America?”

“If I recall, I’m not in ‘America,’ just in the States.  You know South, Central and Canada still exist, right?”

“What are you talking about?”

Sniper smiles and slips down to dunk his head before coming back up and ruffling the road-gunk out of his hair.

“Hey, you still there?”

“Yeah, just cleaning up a bit before my food gets here.”

“Hot.  Would you let me take a bath with you after?”

Sniper snickers and cleans beneath his nails.  “Sure, love.  Whatever you want.”

“Ugh, seriously, stop doing that.” 

“Doing what?”  Sniper asks before yawning and giving himself another scrub down.

“Makin’ me wanna keep talkin’ to you… You’re too fuckin’ _perfect_.”

“Perfect?”  Sniper uses his nails to scrub off a bit of come from the hair framing his navel, and dunks his head again before standing and grabbing a towel.

“Yeah, your voice is hot, you’re probably hot, you’re in the age group I like, you like to fight about sports, you’re also pathetically adorable when you’re nervous…” The voice continues to list Sniper’s qualities as he dries off and grabs a clean pair of jeans from his bag.

“Tell me more about this, ‘age group’ bit.  You like blokes what was in secondary school while you were still in nappies?”

“Dunno what that is, but probably.”

Sniper silently smiles and runs a hand through his hair.  “That’s cute, but—“ a knock at the door cuts him off, and he reaches to the bottom of his bag for his large kukri before forcing his voice to stay natural and saying, “hang on a tic, food’s here.”

“Yeah, ‘kay.” 

Sniper presses mute and sets the phone down before snagging the wallet from his pants on the floor.  He takes enough out for food and tip before opening the door with the same hand that he’s holding the cash with.  The door stops at three inches from the chain lock, and he shifts to peek out at the tall man dressed in a delivery cap and ill-fitting shirt and jeans.  His hair is long and scraggly, and there’s a desperately tended soul patch beneath his lips.

“Delivery.”  The accent is regional and nothing seems out of place about the man.

Sniper closes the door and undoes the chain before reopening the door and giving a smile—right before a knife heads for his navel.

It just glances his side, but his attacker drops the Chinese food as smoke swirls around him and reveals a suit worth more than Sniper’s best rifle, and a red mask covering most of the other man’s face.

Sniper blocks a hand aimed for the side of his neck and brings his kukri around in an attempt to gut the Spy.  “Did you drop your guard?” He taunts Sniper, leaning back to avoid the swing and swinging with his knife again only to miss and swing again in a tight, deadly arc.

Sniper snorts and parries the knife with his kukri while his other hand clutches his wound and attempts to assess the damage.  “If I’d actually dropped my guard, you would’ve skewered me.”  He patiently waits for his chance, fending off the Spy’s knife by dodging and blocking.  They upend the only chair in the room as well as the end table that Sniper had placed the phone on.  He hopes it hasn’t disconnected, but then realizes that he _had_ dropped his guard.  If he’d been in his right mind, he would have had the delivery man take his money, leave the take away and walk away before even opening the door.

His chance comes in the form of a voice from the phone.  The volume is still on high, and the voice from the phone speaks to someone else just as Spy slashes at his face.  Spy says something in surprised French as Sniper dodges.  He doesn’t make it fully out of the way and the knife slices from the bridge of his nose all the way to nick his ear, crisscrossing the last wound the bastard had given him.  Sniper grabs the Spy’s arm and yanks him forward while shoving his Kukri up to the hilt into the other man’s chest.  Surprise turns to confusion when the Spy looks down, and then back up to stare Sniper in the eye.

“ _Pourquoi parles-tu à mon fils_?”

“Dunno what that means, mate, but I’m tired of you followin’ me ‘round.”  Sniper takes the knife from Spy’s hand and raised it to slash his throat before letting the Frenchman drop dead on the cheap carpet.  “Christ…” Sniper mutters, dropping the Spy’s knife and raising his hand to touch the slash on his cheek.  “Guess I’m really not going to be winning any beauty pageants.”  His stomach growls as he snorts and he tosses the little knife to stick into the Spy’s body  “Dropped this, _mate_.”  He smiles at his own joke before walking back over to the door and picking up the dropped bag. 

One of the Chinese containers had busted in the bag, but it wasn’t particularly messy, so Sniper just tears the bag open and lays it open on the bed.  He collects the phone from the floor and unmutes it as he walked back to the door to close and lock it.  “Sorry ‘bout that.  Bugger didn’t like his tip.”

“Did you try ‘n’ cheat my guy?”  The voice asks, sounding unhappy. 

“ ‘Course not, love.  I tip well.”  Sniper tries to sound offended, but talking hurts his cheek and he’s dripping blood all over the place.  He cradles the phone on his uninjured side’s shoulder and winces with every step to his bag for his first aid kit, and then to the bathroom sink to clean up.

“Oh?”

“Yep.”  Sniper starts a slow stream of water in the sink and sets the phone down on the counter while he cleans and dresses his side first, giving his face a little time to clot.  “The best tip I’ve ever given is never sleep with a Frenchman.”

The voice laughed and asked, “oh yeah? Why?”

“He’s from bloody France, what other reason do you need?” 

Another laugh.

“So what do you do when you’re not having sex with strangers on the phone?”

Sniper cleans and bandages his face while the man on the phone tells him an entirely too detailed story about a time he and his pack of brothers snuck into one of the local university’s locker rooms and practiced with the team.  They were far better than the other players on the field, and that’s actually how they got caught.  By the time the voice is describing how far they had to run to escape the angry team, Sniper knows he’s exaggerating, but lets him talk as he returns to the bed and grabs a fork from the bag he’d ripped open. 

“Oh, I’m probably keeping you from eatin’, huh?”  The voice asked when Sniper takes his first bite.

“You can keep talkin’ while I eat.  I had some stuff I had to do before I could tuck in anyway.”  He explains once he’s swallowed.  The dish is spicy and he can taste a hint of lime too.  “This is good,” he says before taking another bite.

“I know, right?  So let’s see… oh, man, my favorite story ever was when my dad caught one of my brothers playing with his knife—he totally freaked out.  It was one of those jointed ones that you can twirl and it clicks and clacks—“

“Balisong,” Sniper supplies between bites.

“Yeah, that, and _oh man_ he beat the hell out of him before showing us all how to use it right.  He always carried it with him, and sometimes he just kinda played with it.  For each of our sixteenth birthdays he got us one—I was like eight when my brother played with it, and he was fourteen, so the oldest turned sixteen that year.  Made it way easier for him to get us gifts.”  He laughs and continues into another story that Sniper doesn’t really listen to.  He just hums and mumbles appropriately, as he sits and finishes up the spicy meat and noodles before laying on his uninjured side and scooping rice into his mouth. 

“You done eating?”  The voice asks as Sniper starts cleaning up the food mess and tossing it in the trash bin.

“Yeah, thanks for ordering for me.  Was nice of you.”

“No worries, _love_.” 

“Oh, turning you into a proper Aussie am I?” Sniper chuckles and scratches his head before sighing.  “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.”

“ _But_ …” the voice supplies for him, sounding let down.

“I’ve still got a lot of work to do before I can get some sleep.” Sniper admits, not liking the twinge of regret he feels at the disappointment in the other man’s voice.  He _does_ want to fall asleep before dawn.

“Ah, it’s fine.  I should probably get back to work anyway.”

“If I’m ever in town again, could I call the same place?”  He asks hopefully, sitting up and resisting a stretch.  It would only hurt his side.

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine.”  He sounds like he’s actually _sulking_.

Sniper smiles and cradles the phone against his shoulder.  “And who should I ask for?”

There’s silence on the line, and Sniper wonders if it got disconnected before the voice pipes up.  “Who’s gonna be asking?  I don’t wanna get excited for no reason.”

Sniper sighs and rolls his eyes before replying, “I’ll say my name’s Wolf.”

There’s silence before the younger man breaks out in laughter and Sniper wonders if he got too bold and looked ridiculous up until the laughter subsides and the voice on the other end says, “ask for Bunny.”

Sniper smiles and is about to ask if he’s serious before the line clicks and an annoying beep goes off in his ear.

Sniper hangs up the phone and goes to his duffle bag, digging through for trash bags and his kit for cleaning game.  He puts them in the bathroom before returning to fetch the Spy’s body and haul it to the tub. 

His mood had improved, despite the trouble of finally killing the man who had been following him for the past few weeks.  He’s thinner than he looks beneath the suit, so it’s not as hard as he had been expecting.

Despite the hassle of disposing of the body, all in all, the night was good.


End file.
